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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915767">Much Ado Aboot Vegetables</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome'>Cumbersome</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Absolute crackfic, F/F, I'm a smug bastard hahaha, Turnips are Unholy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 06:19:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crackfic werein Hermione may or may not threateningly wield a knife while everyone cowers and stuffs fish into their pockets.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>230</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Much Ado Aboot Vegetables</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbinope/gifts">lesbinope</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Not all vegetables are created equally. </p><p>  Or so Ginny thinks, watching Hermione’s jaw twitch as she chops vegetables with a vengeance. A few feet away, drinking wine like it’s water, Fleur frowns, leaning against the kitchen island. </p><p>  “I am saying this sincerely, Hermione,” Fleur says. “The rice is under cooked.” </p><p>  Hermione’s scowl could melt a steel door buried in a glacier. “It is not under cooked.” </p><p>  “It is crunchy. And the wine, the wine is warm.” </p><p>  Ginny winces. Did she have to say that out loud? </p><p>  “And this,” here Fleur picks up a radish, “this is the devil of root vegetables. Truly satanic. Here, I brought you a gift.” </p><p>  Ginny nearly chokes as Fleur reaches behind herself, plucking a cloth grocery bag from the floor. She drops it onto the counter with a thud. She gives a rummage and withdraws triumphant, a bundle of turnips clutched in her hand. </p><p>  “Here,” she declares. “Far superior.” </p><p>  The point of the knife in Hermione’s hand stabs into the cutting board. Gripping it like she is three seconds away from a stabbing spree, Hermione levels a disdainful stare at the French witch smirking and waving turnips in her face. </p><p>  “They are almost exactly the same,” Hermione says between clenched teeth. “Does it matter which I use?” </p><p>  “Well, yes. The turnips are better.” </p><p>  “The radishes are prettier.” </p><p>  “But it is not what is on the outside that counts. It is the flesh on the inside, my foolish friend.” Fleur smirks, seemingly pleased with herself. </p><p>  Ginny cringes. Ohhhhh, Fleur...Honey, don’t flirt when she’s holding a knife. </p><p>  Hermione pulls the knife from the cutting board. “You come into my home and you sit your skinny ass on my stool.” </p><p>  Fleur gives a bemused glance at the stool behind her. “My ass is not skinny. It is...how do the young people say these days? Thick?” </p><p>  “And you drink my wine,” Hermione continues, taking a step forward, brandishing the knife. “And you stick your fingers in my rice.” </p><p>  “I used a spoon!” Fleur protests, retreating. </p><p>  Hermione ignores her, advancing. “And then you try to replace my radishes with turnips. Turnips. Say it with me! Tuuuurrrrrnips. Not even pleasing to the ear much less to the palette. Inferior, woman! I cannot accept an inferior product.” </p><p>  “But...I got these from the farmer’s market. They are perfectly good turnips!” </p><p>  Ginny knocks back a swallow of whiskey, her eyes shifting between the two women. </p><p>  Hermione takes a breath, closing her eyes and going to her zen place. </p><p>  “Put them on the counter,” she says, eyes still closed. </p><p>  Afraid to walk near the knife clutching woman, Fleur tosses the turnips onto the counter from a distance. She raises her hands in a placating gesture, glancing in Ginny’s direction with a plea in her eyes. </p><p>  Unlike some, Ginny can take a hint. She clears her throat loudly. </p><p>  “Ehm, Fleur. Mind helping me, uhm, unclog the loo?” </p><p>  Really, she should work on her cover stories. </p><p>  The look in Hermione’s eyes could raze cities. She spins on her heel, stalking back to her cutting board where she sets about a savage and brutal dismemberment of Fleur’s turnips. </p><p>  “I don’t think this is working,” Fleur whispers to Ginny as they slink from the kitchen. “She hates me.” </p><p>  “She doesn’t hate you,” Ginny tries. </p><p>  She definitely does. </p><p>  “Maybe you’re coming on a little too strong.” </p><p>  “I was teasing! Her face is so adorable when she is angry. I just want to squish her little cheeks.” </p><p>  Ginny snorts of the idea of a glowering Hermione, cheeks blazing red and smooshed between Fleur’s palms. </p><p>  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Ginny advises. “She’s very...toothy.” </p><p>  “Really? How intriguing.” </p><p>  “Not in the good way.” </p><p>  “I can’t think of a single bad way.” </p><p>  Ginny’s eyes roll so hard she can see her cerebellum. “Just sit on the couch and look pretty.” </p><p>  “This I can do,” Fleur says, nodding sagely. </p><p>  It’s not long before Harry and Ron arrive. Ron, the thirsty bastard he is, makes a bee-line for the couch Fleur sits on. Harry presses a quick kiss to Ginny’s lips, edging his eyes to the Veela frowning at Ron’s flushing face. </p><p>  “So?” He whispers. “How is it going?” </p><p>  Operation Get Them To Bang has been in the works for weeks. It began on a rainy November night in Harry’s garden. To hear Fleur tell it, it was an accident. There they were, each having retreated from the party inside for a breath of air. They found themselves standing together, silent and watching the sky. Hermione shivered, Fleur offered her her jacket. Hermione hesitated but finally acquiesced. She took the jacket from Fleur and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She buried her nose in the collar and she sighed. </p><p>  It was the sigh, Fleur had explained. The way her eyes slipped closed and she gave the jacket a happy little nuzzle. Suddenly Fleur’s hands were in Hermione’s hair and they were pressed together, a clash of teeth and tongues and lips and frantic hands. </p><p>  It was going splendidly, Fleur rounding second base with athletic finesse, Hermione reciprocating with gusto. She had Hermione pressed into the house siding and she was drunk on her mouth, shaking in her hands. </p><p>  And then, belching and rearranging his nuts, out came Ron Weasley. </p><p>  There was something decidedly unsexy about a gaping, drunken ginger peeping on your private show. </p><p>  Fleur disentangled herself calmly. Hermione, following Fleur’s eyes, twitched so hard that she nearly fell over. </p><p>  “Oh ho,” Ron grinned. “Shall we make it a threeway?” </p><p>  Come morning, Ron’s left eye was black and Hermione refused to meet Fleur’s eyes. </p><p>  Fleur tried. She made jokes - Hermione only stared. She wore shirts with necklines so low that the Pope himself would have blessed her - Hermione looked only at her nose. She complimented her, charmed her, bought her muffins (chocolate!) and still, Hermione remained as distant as an abandoned lighthouse on the edge of the world. </p><p>  She won’t say that it hurts, not out loud. But it does. She thinks of her and there is a pang in her stomach, a twist that leaves her breathless and frazzled and wondering what if? What if she’s the one? The one to hold her hand and listen to the rain. The one to laugh at her and laugh with her. The one to love her.  </p><p>  And she can’t even look at her. </p><p>  Ron is showing her a scar on his thumb. “Got this one climbing over a fence when I was five -” </p><p>  Fleur sighs. </p><p>  “She is being stubborn,” Ginny whispers to Harry. “She needs to relax.” </p><p>  He holds up a wrapped plate. “I brought brownies.” </p><p>  “Browny brownies? Or just brownies?” </p><p>  He grins. “Browny brownies.” </p><p>  “Thank fuck, you gorgeous man. Eat as fast as you can, so we can get these down her.” </p><p>  The turnips look as though they’ve served a tour of duty bearing rockets into space. The rice is so hard that it nearly snaps one of Harry’s fillings in two. The fish, head still on, mouth gaping, eyes glassy, looks appalled to find itself as the main course. And the wine, as Ron so politely notes, is as warm as camel piss. </p><p>  They look at each other, their expressions helpless. </p><p>  “Something wrong?” Hermione asks sweetly. </p><p>  “Not at all,” Fleur says, helping herself to the ashed turnips. She takes a large bite, meeting Hermione’s eyes as she chews. </p><p>  The doorbell rings. </p><p>  “I’ll get it,” Hermione says, standing. </p><p>  Ginny leans out of her chair, watching until Hermione is out of sight. She waves her hands, scooping up her plate. “Quick, stuff it into your pockets!” </p><p>  “Gin,” Harry says, disgusted. “There’s fish…” </p><p>  “It’s either your mouth or your pockets, baby face. Take your pick.” </p><p>  “Fair point.” He shoves a handful of rice into his pocket, slapping it to flatten and make room. </p><p>  Hermione returns with a pizza box in hand. She raises her eyebrows at the suddenly clean plates. </p><p>  “You guys didn’t actually eat that, did you?” she asks. </p><p>  Staring at the pizza box, Ginny pulls her hand from her pocket, slapping down a wad of fish and rice. “I fucking hate you.” </p><p>  Hermione can’t help it. She laughs. “Pizza?”</p><p>  A slice and two brownies later and the room starts to soften. Hermione sighs, tucking her feet beneath her. </p><p>  Ginny and Harry sit on the floor, their heads together as they sort out puzzle pieces. Ron sits near them, casually stealing border pieces when no one is looking. </p><p>  And Fleur, beautiful, bright eyed Fleur, sits on the other end of the couch and looks like a dejected puppy, her shoulders slumped, her eyes sad. </p><p>  She should talk to her. Hold her hand. Kiss her senseless. Ask to bear her unborn children. </p><p>  But it’s not that simple, is it? She is...well, she is herself. And Fleur is Fleur. That Fleur. The Fleur. She is a thousand things Hermione isn’t, and everything she wants. She is charming and funny, and she talks with her hands. She has the softest lips and the most lovely voice, like honeyed smoke. </p><p>  She looks up, and those eyes are on her, seeing too much. She feels transparent, as though she is housed in a plastic shell, all her cogs and gears displayed like clockwork. She finds herself unfolding her legs, stretching out until her head rests in Fleur’s lap. She looks up at her and ghosts her knuckles over her lips, feeling her breath like summer sun on her fingers. </p><p>  Fleur dips her chin, her hair falling like a curtain over them. </p><p>  “You know, this back and forth thing you do, it’s painful,” Fleur says. </p><p>  “Is it? I thought you would be accustomed to it. Isn’t it just a game to you?” </p><p>  “That’s what you think?” </p><p>  “You’re dangerous. And I’m not. I’m ordinary. I like cuddles and movie nights and lazy Sundays. I’m boring.” </p><p>  “I like those things, too. You would know that, if you had ever bothered to ask.” </p><p>  “I’ve been an ass, haven’t I?” </p><p>  “Very much so.” </p><p>  “I’m sorry about your turnips. Even if they are atrocious.” </p><p>  “Your vegetable prejudice is very disturbing.” </p><p>  “I could learn to tolerate them.” </p><p>  “Is that your way of asking me for a date?” </p><p>  “What would you say if it was?” </p><p>  Fleur considers. She smiles and rests her warm hands against Hermione’s cheeks. She gives them a squish. “I would say yes. As long as you don’t cook. I’m sorry, darling, but you make a frozen dinner taste gourmet.” </p><p>  Laughing, Hermione slips her arms around Fleur’s neck and brings her close. She kisses her softly, lingering, their noses brushing, their lips aching where they touch. </p><p>  Ginny nudges Harry. </p><p>  “Houston, we have lift off.” </p><p>  He sighs. “Finally.” </p><p>  Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. And others, with turnips.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey folks! I wrote this as a joke to make fun of a saucy individual here on the site. It's garbage and written hastily on a lunch break, but it made me laugh my ass off. And while I'm here, I just thought I'd drop in and say thank you for reading and thanks for being yourselves. It is an absolute honor and privilege to share a bit of your time. You all make me smile, and you inspire the stuffing out of me. </p><p>And to the person this is gifted to....Come at me, bruv. *mic drop*</p></blockquote></div></div>
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